Discard The Shadows
by SmileyBearStories
Summary: Sometimes it become too hard to go on. No matter how amazing other people see you, you are falling apart. You lose sight of your own worth. However, if you can be brave and be bold, then you can be brilliant. Or at least just better. Tim could be better. Rated T due to themes of depression/anxiety.


Some days it just becomes too hard to keep going. Days when you feel worthless; like you don't belong. There's no place for you in the world and you just want time to stop while you hide from the world. The world will keep turning even if you weren't there and then you wouldn't be in anyone's road. You are unnecessary. Annoying. In the road. No one loves you. No one needs you.

Some days it takes more energy than you can summon to rise out of bed. The doona has accepted you into its warm embrace and it feels like the safest place to be right now. Outside that comfort is cold, harsh reality. Only the blankets want you. The act of getting up feels herculean. More equivalent to running a triathlon than putting two feet on the carpet and walking five meters. The whole ordeal requires the courage of a lion, and a fifteen-minute internal pep-talk ensues. Thoughts flow like a machine gun, firing on the value of life. They mutilate all reasoning for getting up, but they are slayed down by obligation, money, and expectation.

Still the alarm blares and despite the sighs and amount of encouragement it takes, Tim gets up. Despite all the odds, he flicks back the blankets and rolls out of bed. Feet hit the floor, momentum pulling him up straight in one fluid motion. He adjusts to being vertical, yawning and stretching before daring to take the twenty steps to the kitchen.

Autopilot takes over, guiding him around the kitchen in a practiced, but slow, dance. The whole event passes in a haze until he's sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal in front of him. It's not the healthiest, but it's more than he had yesterday. Better than nothing. One spoon after the other. No matter how tired he gets, or how much he wants to give up on the gruelling task, he tells himself he must at least finish the bowl. It's a battle to force each spoonful in. His body fighting against him. It lies and tells him he's full. Tells him he doesn't need the food. His conscience tells him he does need it. Each flake makes it into his mouth, laboriously chewed and swallowed. Although, the milk in the bottom gets neglected because that's more strength he'd have to muster and beyond his limits.

Slow, heavy feet pad back to the bedroom and it's as exertional as a tennis match trying to take clothes out the cupboards. He carries those clothes, weighing down his arms and making the muscles ache, to the bathroom, feet shuffling and head hung the whole way. Dirty clothes drop to the floor where they're neglected, lifeless bodies forgotten on the battlefield, and slowly new clothes are pulled up. He won't shower, that exceeds the battery of his motivation. A quick brush of teeth, because some is better than none, and a wash of his face. His head remains hung over the sink, elbows resting on the vanity attempting to hold his burdened shoulders. There's a black dog on his shoulders and a dense storm cloud around his head that makes them too hard to lift.

Slowly, he finds the strength to stand up, although his blurred blue eyes won't lift from the floor. He couldn't be bothered drying his face, so water drips from his chin as he adventures into the house. He must prepare a lunch. Yet, there's not a single food in any cupboard or the fridge that tempts him. The idea of eating further sounds exhausting. Maybe he'll pick something up from the cafeteria at work. Maybe.

So he trudges back to his room, shrouded in darkness. The bed is a mess of tangled sheets. He watches it and sighs. He really should make it, but that's just too strenuous. He sighs again before shuffling to the bed, slowly hauling up the sheet and doona. It's not neat by any means, its falling sideways off the mattress and the pillow is haphazardly tossed at the head. He flicks his hand across the surface to dust out the wrinkles. Then he steps back to admire the work, feeling accomplished, in a lopsided painting kind of way. It's up there, it's hanging, it just needs a few adjustments. Adjustments for another day after he's recharged.

His next obstacle was the curtains. He turns amongst the sweeping darkness to stare at the fabric behemoths, wondering just how much strength it will take to defeat them. He drops his head and starts to turn away, a challenge for another day. He already conquered the bed, it's just one step further…but the light. The curtains cage the best that heralds life. Under their protection he can wallow in the gloom that consumes him. However, something about that lingering accomplishment turns him back. Oh, for that brief feeling of success. One deep breath. Two. A solid grip on the thick shield and a solid yank. Light gushes into the room to the sound of his displeased hiss. It valiantly abolishes the darkness to the hidden corners of the room. His eyes briefly seek their comfort, but the darkness is for cowering in later. For now, he will embrace the light's message. He will allow it to shadow the darkness in his mind.

He grabs his utility belt and pulls down his cowl. He will venture out the cave with one brave, determined step and he will ride to work amongst the hustle and bustle of the city. He will soar into any crime with a heroic smile, even if it's made of porcelain. He will fight jump the rooftops, comfort victims and provide comfort to the citizens lives. With every punch, every slice of his staff, every crime he stops, Tim is saving lives.

People don't see it from Tim's side. They don't see the heroic war he must wage every day to keep going. They don't see the darkness in his mind. They don't see the devil on his shoulder that's constantly whispering. They don't see the self-deprecation he recites that's weighing him down. People see a brilliant vigilante. They see a saviour. They see a guardian. They see a man who's dedicating his life to protecting their loved ones. They see a superhero battling the evils of Gotham's blackened veins. They'll never know that his real enemy is in his head.

While Tim, despite his shackles, is achieving remarkable feats of heroism every day, he can be better.

He goes home to an empty apartment, drenched in the encroaching darkness. He's exhausted after preventing three robberies, a gang rape and a Penguin debacle. He slumps on his bed, planning to give up then and there. He'll wallow in his misery until sleep swallows him.

So when there's a knock at the door, he ignores it. Considers perhaps it's just his imagination. The knocking grows louder, incessant. Finally, he drags himself to his feet and shuffles to the door. His eyes finally lift from the floor and black bangs part to expose the unwelcome guest.

Jason. The black sheep of the family. Tim's older brother. The two don't have a fabulous track record, often at odds with each other. Jason has demonstrated on multiple occasions that he resents Tim. So he is surprised to see him standing at the door.

"Hungry, Tim?" Jason's lips spread in a placating grin and he raises up the rustling plastic bag. The smell of wafting Chinese invades Tim's nostrils. He flicks the lock and opens the door.

See all someone like Tim needs, is a little bit of help, then he can be better. He can shine brighter. All he needs is someone to say…

"Hey, Tim, are you ok?" Jason enquires while pouring more Chinese onto Tim's plate. Tim's head shoots up, Teriyaki noodles draping from his mouth.

That's all he needs, but it's not as simple as are you ok, because the I'm fine response is well practiced. Even after he's slurped up the noodles and drowned his tastebuds in the salty, soy sauce concoction the words taste fake. Anyone who accepts such an obvious farce isn't really asking if he's ok. Or they aren't prepared to listen to the voices in his head. He expects Jason, who's never shown concern for Tim before and struggling with his own demons, to dismiss the lie without further question. Then he'll further wallow. It takes an extra push; a slap of reality to brighten up his world. Vindication of Jason's sincerity.

"Well, that's a poorly fabricated lie, isn't it Timmy?" Jason casts a criticising glance at his little brother, pushing more food in his direction, "How are you really feeling?"


End file.
